Gathering Stones

"Take twelve stones from the middle of the Jordan... These stones are to be a memorial to the people forever. In the future, when your children ask, 'What do these stones mean?' tell them..."
— Joshua 4:3, 6–7

There are moments in life that quietly become memorials.

Not because they change everything in an instant, but because years later we look back and realize they marked the beginning of something we couldn't yet see.

The Israelites gathered stones from the middle of the Jordan River after God led them safely across. Those stones weren't trophies. They weren't monuments to human achievement. They were reminders of God's faithfulness.

I've come to believe we all gather stones.

Not from riverbeds.

From moments.

From conversations.

From unexpected kindness.

From quiet confirmations that gently whisper, "Keep going."

I came home from Arizona carrying several of them.

I Thought I Was Going to Learn About Bread

When I boarded the plane for Arizona, I thought I knew why I was going.

I thought I was going to learn about bread.

About growth.

About production.

About systems.

About sustainability.

Those things certainly happened.

I filled pages of notes.

I learned techniques that will shape the future of Art of The Crumb.

But that's not why I went.

Now I know.

I went to Arizona for confirmation.

I went for quiet validation.

I went to gather stones of Grace.

The Strength of Vulnerability

On the very first day, Jon and Amanda invited us into something unexpected.

Vulnerability.

Not as a weakness.

As a strength.

They encouraged us to ask questions.

To admit what we didn't know.

To step beyond the safety of certainty and into the humility of learning.

It changed the atmosphere immediately.

No one needed to pretend.

No one needed to prove themselves.

We simply became a room full of bakers learning together.

There is remarkable freedom in that.

I realized that the strongest people in the room were not the ones who knew the most.

They were the ones who remained teachable.

Stewards

Throughout the weekend, another word quietly settled into my heart.

Stewardship.

I found myself surrounded by people who weren't simply excellent bakers.

They were stewards of their craft.

They handled flour with respect.

People with kindness.

Knowledge with generosity.

Nothing felt possessive.

Everything felt entrusted.

That distinction has stayed with me.

I don't simply want to build a bakery.

I want to become a faithful steward of whatever God chooses to place in my hands.

An Observer

Before leaving Tennessee, I made a promise to myself.

I would go as a quiet observer.

I wouldn't arrive with opinions.

I wouldn't rush to conclusions.

I would simply pay attention.

I carried that intention with me every day.

Then, near the end of the first day, Amanda quietly walked over and pulled me aside.

She smiled and asked,

"You are an observer, aren't you?"

I smiled.

Because she had just given words to something I had only recently begun to understand myself.

She didn't tell me who I was.

She simply recognized it.

Sometimes another person sees something in us long before we fully embrace it ourselves.

That quiet conversation became one of my stones.

Grace Leaves Clues

One evening, as I reflected on everything unfolding around me, I realized something.

Grace leaves clues.

The question is whether we're paying enough attention to gather them.

Every day in Arizona seemed to offer another one.

The rain that greeted the desert.

The feeling that settled over me the moment I stepped inside the bakery.

The conversations.

The laughter.

The quiet encouragement.

The sense that somehow I had found my people.

None of those moments demanded attention.

But together...

They became a memorial.

One Final Stone

My final stone wasn't gathered inside the bakery.

It happened at the airport.

As I waited to board my flight home, a woman struck up a conversation with me.

She asked why I had been in Phoenix.

I told her.

Not just about Proof Bread.

I told her my story.

About grief.

Loss.

Recovery.

Sourdough.

Healing.

The unexpected journey that led me here.

As I spoke, tears filled her eyes.

She looked at me and said,

"I felt compelled to come talk to you, and I didn't even know why. I know why now."

She shared that she, too, had experienced profound loss over the past three years—her partner, her mother, and her job.

Then she said something I'll never forget.

"I needed to hear your story."

We exchanged phone numbers.

As I drifted off to sleep last night, my phone softly pinged.

It was a text from her.

She told me something inside her had shifted.

A weight had been lifted.

Then she wrote the words that brought tears to my own eyes.

"I think I've found my sourdough."

Teaching.

At that moment, I realized something.

Find Your Sourdough was never really about bread.

It has always been an invitation.

Not for people to bake.

But for them to discover the ordinary place where Grace is quietly transforming their lives.

Gathering Stones

As I look back over my time in Arizona, I don't find myself remembering formulas or production schedules first.

I remember people.

I remember kindness.

I remember humility.

I remember vulnerability.

I remember stewardship.

I remember being seen.

I remember gathering stones.

Years ago, Joshua instructed the people of Israel to gather stones so future generations would remember God's faithfulness.

Today, I understand why.

We are quick to remember disappointment.

We have to become intentional about remembering Grace.

Arizona didn't simply teach me how to become a better baker.

It reminded me who I am.

An observer.

A steward.

A writer.

Someone learning, day by day, to pay attention to the unfolding of Grace.

And perhaps that is the greatest stone of all.

Warmly,

Kathy
Art of The Crumb